


Knowing Me, Knowing You

by jedusaur



Series: Modern-Day Slave 'Verse [3]
Category: Bandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, M/M, Slavery, noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 09:31:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedusaur/pseuds/jedusaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most people probably don't spend this much time predicting potential awful consequences of good things, but that's what happens when you grow up in captivity. It's hard to enjoy things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knowing Me, Knowing You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theletterelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theletterelle/gifts).



> If you like this, don't thank me for it, thank Elle. I wouldn't have finished this series if she hadn't kept encouraging me long after everyone else had forgotten it existed. There's no way this can possibly live up to her expectations at this point, but I hope she enjoys it nonetheless. Merry Christmas, Elle. <3
> 
> WARNING: references to underage sexual slavery, on-screen noncon committed by an OMC.

In his entire life before becoming an international rock star, Brendon attended a grand total of one concert.

He was fourteen years old at the time, and he'd just been sold to his third owner. His second owner had sold him back to the Service out of frustration with his inability to keep his hands off the instruments, and he'd had to stay there until the marks healed enough that they wouldn't bring down his price. The new owner wasn't so bad; he wanted to be serviced more than he wanted to use Brendon, which meant more control and less choking.

He lived with family, including a niece who was a junior in high school, and she was the one who took Brendon to see live music for the first time. His owner hadn't wanted to let her take Brendon, didn't want her breaking his toy, but she told him she would feel safer at the show with a guy on her arm, and he gave in.

Just getting to put on clothes and leave the house would have been thrilling enough on its own, but with the promise of music thrown in, Brendon was over the moon. He did his best to settle down and behave, because the last thing he needed was to piss off another owner and go back to the Service again, but it was impossible to tamp down the excitement entirely.

The band was called OshKosh B'Goshpit, and they were terrible. Brendon had never heard music that bad. He only knew bands that were decent enough to play on the radio. But it didn't matter. The atmosphere, the intensity, the sheer energy... he was in love. He watched them up there on the stage, pouring everything into the show, and he wanted it. He wanted to be the guitarist, sweaty hair whipping to the beat, wailing backup vocals into a mic. It didn't occur to him to wish he could be the frontman.

After two songs, his owner's niece dragged him into the bathroom. She knew what he was for, and it wasn't bodyguarding.

That was the last time Brendon watched a concert from the front.

***

Everything in the box is velvet and silver. There are six seats, which is two more than they need. Brendon wants to go down to the main floor of the concert hall and invite a couple people in shitty seats up to the box with them. If it was just him and Jon, he totally would, but that's the kind of impulse that takes energy to explain to Spencer and Ryan.

He doesn't mention it, just settles into his cushy seat and listens to Ryan buzz. It's strange to see him so excited. Ryan's never been the kind of person who bounces off the walls when he's in a good mood, but even taking that into consideration, he's seemed excessively bored by everything lately.

Brendon knows why. They all know why. At some point they're going to have to talk about it, about the fact that the songs Ryan is writing are not songs for their band. But Brendon sure as fuck is not going to bring it up, and neither is Jon. Spencer will have to be the one to eventually pull Brendon's head out of the sand and Ryan's out of the much less pleasant place it seems to be stuck.

They're here to see Paul McCartney. Brendon would be a hell of a lot more pumped about it if he wasn't busy thinking about what kind of music it will inspire Ryan to write. Most people probably don't spend this much time predicting potential awful consequences of good things, but that's what happens when you grow up in captivity. It's hard to enjoy things.

Ryan doesn't notice how tense Brendon is, even though he's consciously not making an effort to hide it. That's another problem, a different problem, although it might not matter in practice. If the band falls apart, Brendon won't even notice breaking up with his boyfriend in the process.

Jon notices. He touches Brendon's shoulder, concerned. Brendon smiles at him, because initiating physical contact is still kind of new for Jon and he needs the encouragement.

The concert is incredible, enough so that Brendon manages to let go of his neuroses and have a good time. That turns out to be a mistake.

***

"I'm not changing my mind about _anything_ ," says Ryan hotly. "I never wanted to make mainstream pop in the first place. I just wanted to make good music, and I was a teenager. And now I'm a fucking grownup, and my tastes have fucking matured. Don't vilify me for that."

"Oh yeah, you're being really _fucking mature_ right now," says Spencer.

This conversation should be happening in private, not in a velvet-upholstered balcony overlooking a crowd of people. But it's happening here, now, and Brendon isn't staying out of it now just because that would be sensible. "You're channeling the Beach Boys, Ryan," he says. "You think being ancient makes them not mainstream pop?"

Ryan mumbles something about withstanding the test of time, and Brendon stands up to leave before he breaks something.

"Is fame that important to you?" Ryan demands, behind him. "Does being popular mean more to you than artistic integrity?"

Brendon whips his head around. "Fuck you, Ryan," he hisses. "If fame was the only thing in the whole world you were allowed to have, it'd be important to you too."

"You _have_ shit," snaps Ryan. "You're not really a slave anymore, quit using it as an excuse for everything."

The white noise from the mass of people below them fills Brendon's ears. Spencer and Jon have both frozen. Ryan is still scowling, but uneasily, like he knows he just went too far.

"Spencer," says Brendon. "Let me see your wallet."

Spencer hands it over. They do this all the time; Brendon isn't legally allowed to carry money, and while he does anyway, he still can't have an ATM card or a credit card, so he just gets cash from Ryan or Spencer when he needs it.

Brendon takes out all the cash Spencer has plus his bank card, gives the wallet back, and leaves. None of them try to stop him. They probably think he's going to come back.

***

Brendon is reasonably sure that Spencer won't file runaway paperwork or report his card stolen. If Pete hears about his disappearance, he's probably fucked, but in the long term he's fucked either way, so he doesn't stress on it.

It's easy for a few weeks. He hops trains around the country for a while until he gets bored, then stops in New Hampshire and uses an internet cafe to trawl Craigslist for a casual room rental agreement that won't involve a lease. He finds a thirty-something yuppie lady with a spare room, wireless internet, and a disinclination to ask questions, and that works out perfectly. 

He has a cell phone, but it stays off. He knows, logically, that at some point Spencer is going to notice that the ATM withdrawals are all in the same city, so cell tracking won't matter. And fans are sure to have spotted him and tweeted about it or whatever. If they want to find Brendon, they'll be able to. Still, he can't think of anyone with this number that he wants to talk to, so there's no reason to turn it on.

There can't be all that many Brendon Urie sightings, anyway, because he spends most of his time holed up in his room writing music. The kind of music that made them famous; the kind Ryan would label shitty mainstream pop.

It's _good_ mainstream pop, and Ryan can go fuck himself.

Brendon googles Panic once in a while. They haven't officially broken up yet. He lets himself hope that Ryan has come to his senses and the breakup won't happen, but he doesn't go so far as to believe it, and he doesn't check his e-mail.

***

He makes it three and a half weeks before he fucks up. He's trying to buy booze, which probably wasn't going to happen in the first place, since he doesn't have proof of age. He does own a passport for touring overseas, but he doesn't have it with him. And he really needs a bottle of Jack right now. He figures it can't hurt to try. Nobody ever actually calls the police over that kind of bullshit.

He forgets that he's in a control state, and the liquor stores are run by the government.

The woman behind the counter eyes him dubiously when he approaches with his Jack, and he prepares to pull the "whoops, forgot my ID" act. To his surprise, though, she takes the bottle and scans it. It's not until she's putting it in a brown paper bag that she says, "Where's your owner?"

Brendon tries not to let the panic show on his face. He can't figure out how she knows, but clearly she does, so he says, "Waiting for me to bring that back."

"On vacation?"

That's when Brendon figures it out. Government buildings have chip scanners built into the doorways--he didn't notice coming in because of the shoplifting sensors. Right now, she has access to his name, Spencer's name and phone number, and their address.

"Yeah," Brendon says. "Vacation." He grabs the bottle and makes a beeline for the door, which... won't open.

"I'm just gonna double-check on that," the cashier says, picking up the phone.

***

Brendon's arm hurts like a _bitch_. The bastards didn't have to tase him, he wasn't trying to get away. He's not a moron; he's perfectly aware that running away from the police is a dumbass move, and he knows Spencer will come get him out. That's why he was holding his hands up when they showed up, ready to go quietly. They just zapped him because they're assholes.

They must have called Spencer by now, but it's going to take a while for him to get here. They can only release a runaway slave into the care of its owner, and these dicks probably wouldn't let him go even if they could. So Brendon's stuck here for the moment.

The cell isn't too awful. There's padding on the bench for sleeping, at least, and an actual toilet instead of a bucket. It's not pretty, but Brendon's stayed in worse.

The guards keep bugging him. Brendon has been functionally free for so long now that he'd almost managed to forget what it's like to be treated like a slave. They cheerfully remind him. One guy in particular seems to like taunting him about being a pleasure slave; he's probably never known anyone rich enough to have one.

Brendon is hoping Spencer will make it out there that day, because he can guess what's going to happen if this douche is still on duty after lights out, but that would have been too much to hope for. Sure enough, it's only been dark for a few minutes when the guard slips into the cell and forces him to his knees.

It's been a long time since anyone fucked Brendon's head against a wall. Turns out it's just like riding a bicycle.

***

The first thing out of Spencer's mouth is, "I'm sorry. God, Brendon, I'm so sorry."

"I really fucking hate you right now," Brendon tells him.

That hits Spencer hard, even though he's clearly trying to keep control of his expression.

"It's not really you I hate," says Brendon. "More like the world. All the things that suck, and all the people who don't know how much they suck, or don't care. You're kind of a scapegoat. I'm working on that."

Spencer leans his forehead against the bars. "They said I can sign you out and take you home, or sell you to the Service. I know you don't want to be around me right now, but..."

"I want to be around you more than I want to be sold back to the fucking Service," says Brendon. "Jesus. You would do that?"

"If that's what you wanted, I would." Spencer looks like he's trying to squeeze his head through the two-inch space between bars. "I'm sorry," he says again. "I have to take you back, but after the flight you can go wherever you want."

Brendon sighs. He's not going anywhere except home, not with a runaway mark on his record. Multiple-offender runaways don't just get tased and throatfucked.

"Let's just go," he says.

***

The band officially breaks up about twenty minutes after Brendon gets home. They've just been waiting for him, apparently.

Ryan gets Jon in the divorce, and Brendon gets Panic's name. That's all he really wants: the screams, the six-block lines, the millions of teenage girls guaranteeing with every stammered autograph request that Brendon won't have to go back to what he was before he became who he is.

He also gets Spencer in the divorce. He's not sure how he feels about that.

***

"Are you still in love with me?"

Brendon has been lying on the living room floor staring at the ceiling for almost three hours straight, writing lyrics in his head. Spencer is curled up in an armchair nearby with his laptop, quietly dealing with contract issues.

Spencer closes his computer. He's looking at Brendon, but Brendon doesn't meet his eyes. He just wants an answer to the question, that's all. It's just them now, and things are already precarious. They need to be solid, the two of them.

"I don't think I was, before," says Spencer softly. "I was infatuated, and curious. I wanted you. I thought I loved you, but I don't think I really did."

Brendon stares at the ceiling for several tense minutes before asking, "And now? Are you in love with me now?"

There's another long pause.

"Let's just..." Spencer starts, then stops and tries again. "We have a lot of shit to deal with right now. Let's deal with it, okay? And then if we need to talk about that, we can talk about it."

 _I regain repose and wonder how I ended up inside_ , thinks Brendon. That's good, he can use that.

***

"Hello, Los Angeles!" Brendon yells into the microphone. "God, it's good to see all your shining faces again. Hey, listen, do you have a camera? Cameraphone? Anything that can take video? Pull it out right now, I want this next part on YouTube before I get off the stage, got it?"

He steps up on an amp so everyone can see, carefully not looking behind him. He doesn't want to watch Spencer's reaction to this. There'll be plenty of time for that later.

"I want to tell you guys something. I fuck around a lot, you know that, but this isn't fucking around, okay? I'm not kidding. Spencer, that guy behind the drums back there, he has a piece of paper somewhere in his apartment. He doesn't take it out a whole lot, and I've never seen it, but I can tell you this much--he knows _exactly_ where it is. And that piece of paper, it says this throat right here," Brendon points at his neck, "this throat isn't good for anything except getting fucked."

He rips out his earpiece, which is starting to buzz with frantic voices. "I just want you all to know this," he says into the microphone. "If you paid God only fucking knows how much they're charging for these shows to see me because you think my throat works better without a dick in it, I want you to know that I didn't own clothes until we started recording _Fever_. And if you have a slave, you don't know jack fuckall about what that person is capable of. And you won't, if you let shit stay the way it is."

Brendon turns around and looks directly at Spencer. "Spence," he says. "Count us in."

Spencer counts them in without missing a beat, because Spencer never misses a beat, and that's when Brendon starts to suspect that someday, maybe, he might be okay.


End file.
